


Sink or Swim

by bigblackhorse4



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cutting, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, but it's one I needed to write, this isn't the happiest of stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2736293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblackhorse4/pseuds/bigblackhorse4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is struggling with the memories returning to him after his reset. One memory in particular sends him over the edge, and he subsequently attempts suicide. Steve gets to him just in time, but Bucky has a long road to recovery, both mental and physical.</p><p>But recovery isn't always the easiest choice to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink or Swim

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I call my "exercise in awful". As such, please don't read if suicide attempts, suicidal thoughts, or self-harm are triggering to you. The rating of M is for suicide attempts. 
> 
> Thank you as always to GreyMichaela for being an awesome friend and beta. Go check out her SPN fics! 
> 
> As always, feedback and comments are much cherished. Plus, a unicorn is born every time you leave a comment, didn't ya know?

Steve strolled down the street in the direction of his gym, takeout Thai food in hand. It was a lovely fall evening: cool weather, with just a brisk hint of the winter to come. It was his favorite time of year.

 

With his fake glasses and baseball hat on, Steve could generally travel the streets of New York without much notice. Just the way he liked it. Occasionally someone would recognize him—usually a child sporting an Avengers t-shirt—but more often than not he was invisible amongst the crowds. As for the men and women who frequented his and Bucky’s gym—they paid a great deal to work out at a gym that never questioned who they were or why they were there. So they were all anonymous equals.

 

A retired boxing champ by the name of Eddie ran it, though all the patrons had their own key to get in. The sign on the door said it closed at 9:00 each night but the unspoken rule was that anyone could go there at any time. Just be quiet, clean up after yourself, and don’t do anything stupid to endanger yourself, like work out with the weights alone.

 

Bucky had said he’d be back around 7:00 or 8:00 that night, but Steve thought he would surprise his best friend with his favorite restaurant’s noodles. Bucky had been down a lot lately. Steve knew some pad Thai wouldn’t solve all Bucky’s struggles, but maybe he could see a ghost of his friend’s smile tonight.

 

 When Stark and the psychiatrists at SHIELD had overcome the Winter Soldier programming, Steve had known Bucky was in for a long road of recovery.

 

The flashbacks and nightmares began not long after the deprogramming, along with the panic attacks and depression. When Bucky wasn’t sleeping the day away, he was hating himself and punishing his body in anyway possible. The day Steve found Bucky with a razor to his side was the day Steve called the psychiatrists again, begging for them to intervene.

 

They didn’t hospitalize him; instead they worked with Bucky on an outpatient basis, stepped up the therapy sessions, and changed his medications.

 

And Bucky seemed to be getting better. _Today was definitely a step in the right direction_ , Steve thought, smiling. Today marked the first day that Bucky had wanted to get up and _do_ something physical, by himself. Getting Bucky to the gym normally took a lot of pleading and cajoling on Steve’s part, but today Bucky practically bounced out the door.

 

A spring in his step, Steve bounded up the steps to the gym and paused to do a balancing act with the takeout to dig for his keys in his pocket. Finding them, he slid the key into the lock and stepped inside.

 

 _Odd. It’s dark. Why is Bucky working out in the dark?_ Steve flicked on the light switches, illuminating all corners of the gym. No sign of Bucky or his gear.

 

 _Did he leave and I missed him?_ Pacing forward, Steve dug out his cellphone and pressed his favorites list to get Bucky’s contact number. The phone rang and rang before going to voicemail with a generic voice telling him to leave a message after the tone. _Weird, he usually answers._

 

Floundering for a moment, Steve tried to think where Bucky could be. They always took the same route coming and going from here, but maybe Bucky’d slipped past him walking on the opposite side of the street. Worry crept into his mind, but Steve pushed it down. _He’s probably back at the Tower. Nothing to worry about._

 

One call to the Tower and JARVIS confirmed he wasn’t on the premises.

 

Bucky had gotten lost a few times since the reset, forgetting where he was and the date, but he’d always had the presence of mind to call Steve or Natasha to come and get him. _Maybe he dissociated and got lost again_ , Steve thought, sending up a prayer next that his friend was safe and sound.

 

By reflex, Steve moved towards the bathroom located at the back of the gym—he needed to clear there before starting his search outside the walls. As he walked in the direction of the bathroom, he started dialing Eddie’s number.

 

As the phone rang, he opened the bathroom door. The stench of vomit hit Steve’s nose and he rushed in, abandoning the phone.

 

He found Bucky on the floor of one of the shower stalls, blue-faced and lying in a puddle of his own vomit.

 

The next few minutes were a blur.

 

Steve was fighting down panic because his best friend was cyanotic and _not breathing._ He didn’t know how long Bucky had been down for, but it couldn’t be that long, right? There had still been some warmth to his body, or was that just wishful thinking? _Come on, Buck, you can’t crap out on me now._

 

After checking for a pulse and finding none, Steve immediately started chest compressions. _Thirty compressions to two breaths_. That’s all Steve could remember now from his mandatory SHIELD CPR class; his instructor had drilled that phrase into his and everyone else’s heads. _Thirty to two, thirty to two_.

 

Steve’s hands kept slipping in the vomit smeared on Bucky’s shirt and his mouth burned with the acrid taste of bile from forcing air into Bucky’s nonresponsive lungs, but all that mattered were the cycles of compressions and breaths. Belatedly, Steve realized part of the moisture on Bucky’s shirt was coming from his own eyes, but there was nothing to do about that.

 

He didn’t see anything, except Bucky’s still blue, blue lips and bruised eyelids. Steve was waiting for his best friend’s eyes to flutter open, that moment when everything would be okay. _Come on, Bucky,_ breathe _. Breathe for me._

 

It wasn’t until the paramedics pulled him off that Steve realized Eddie must’ve heard him through the still open phone call and called EMS. So Steve was shoved aside and the paramedics went to work on Bucky.

 

Numbly, Steve watched the paramedics poke and prod Bucky with needles, all the while still doing compressions and respirations. The team worked with hurried efficiency; soon enough Bucky was packed in the ambulance waiting outside and Steve was fighting to ride along.

 

“Sir, there isn’t enough room, and we need to get him to a hospital,” the broad-shouldered Latino paramedic said to Steve.

 

_No. Not leaving him._

 

“I will sit up front with the driver and stay out of your way, but I’m _coming_ with you,” Steve growled as he followed the driver up to the front. The driver shrugged at the other two and before long, lights and sirens lit up the night.

 

Steve pressed his forehead against the ambulance window and struggled to breathe. From the back, he heard the sounds of the paramedics respirating Bucky with an ambu-bag. Then shocking his heart, but no beats on the heart monitor filled the air.

 

The next hours were a blur.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Natasha was six time zones and four thousand miles away on a post-mission vacation when she got the distress call on her unregistered phone.

 

“Ciao?” she answered, not recognizing the number through the haze of sleep.

 

“Nat.” The voice cracked over that one syllable, but Natasha knew it anyway.

 

She sat bolt upright in bed, sending covers flying off her and Clint, who snored on beside her. “Steve?”

 

There was a pause filled with only the sound of Steve trying to control his breathing. Alarm raced through Natasha’s veins, chasing away any remaining dregs of sleep. She restrained herself from launching into an interrogation, but only just. _What’s going on, Rogers?_

 

“It-it’s Bucky,” he finally said. An audible swallow, then, “He’s in surgery. Umm…they don’t know if he’ll make it.”

 

 _That_ amped the adrenaline spike running through her system, and she jumped out of bed, already looking for clothes to put on. She threw a book from her suitcase in the direction of the bed and hissed to Clint, “Get _up_.”

 

Her jeans were on within seconds and she placed the phone—now on speaker—on the bedside table. As she shrugged into a t-shirt she asked, “What happened?”

 

Steve answered just as Clint sat up in bed, scrubbing his hand over his hair and bleary eyes.

 

“He tried to…He-he overdosed.”

 

Clint and Natasha’s eyes met over the foot of the bed. _Thank goodness Clint fell asleep in his hearing aids, because I don’t think I could’ve repeated that._

 

“Goddammit, Barnes,” Clint growled before hauling his ass out of bed, diving for the unkempt pile of clothing that hid his suitcase.

 

It felt like a horse had kicked Natasha in the stomach. _Not Bucky._ She couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t. The morning would come and this would all be a bad dream.

 

But no. This was Bucky, and he’d been struggling lately, despite his efforts to hide it. _I never should’ve left him._

 

With shaky hands she signed to Clint, “Call airport for flight” as she drilled Steve, “What hospital? Is anyone there with you? Do you know why he did this?”

 

It took Steve longer and longer to answer each question, but Nat was filled with relief when Steve said that Tony and Pepper were on their way from the Avengers Tower. At least now she didn’t have to worry about Steve.

 

Her sole concentration could go to Bucky then.

 

Natasha went through the motions of packing up their gear into the suitcases, abandoning all sense of orderliness in the suitcases, while Clint argued in stilted Italian with the concierge at the airline. She was fast, efficient, not indulging in any frivolous emotions. _Cold, stay cold, Romanoff_ , she told herself, trying to push back the thoughts of poor Bucky on the operating table with his insides bleeding out and organs failing. _You can’t help him_ or _Steve if you’re emotional._

 

That’s what Natasha told herself, but the silent tears on Clint’s shoulder would come later, at cruising altitude over the Atlantic.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tony was sitting down to dinner with Pepper at the Tower when JARVIS informed him of a call from Steve Roger’s cell phone. With mild confusion he accepted the call—normally Steve preferred face-to-face conversations and would just come upstairs to talk to him.

 

“Hey, Stevie-boy, how’s it going? And where are you? Figured you and Barnes would have sniffed out our dinner from downstairs already.”

 

“ _Tony_.” Steve’s voice sounded desperate, haunted.

 

 _He never calls me Tony._ Unease clutched at Tony’s chest. _Shit, what’s wrong?_ He immediately stood up from the table and called for JARVIS to scan the Tower for Steve. The read-out on the wall gave no indication Steve was in the building since he’d left about an hour and a half ago.

 

“Rogers, should I be suiting up?” Tony queried, already readying the wrist cuffs for the Mark VII and leaning over to kiss Pepper goodbye.

 

There was a choked sound on the other end of the line, then, “No. Bucky, he…he’s in surgery. Don’t know if he’ll make it or not.”

 

_Shit, not Barnes! We only just got him back._

 

“Which hospital?” Tony and Pepper demanded in unison. Pepper was already grabbing her purse and running for the elevator.

 

“I…don’t…” Steve faltered, unaware of where he had ended up.

 

Tony solved the problem with an order to JARVIS about tracking Steve’s GPS in his phone, which JARVIS did, down to the waiting room Steve paced in at Mount Sinai Hospital.

 

The drive to the hospital was a blur of streetlights, horn honking, and the thoughts of _what the hell happened?_ He had no idea how long it took to drive there—only that it was too long. Too long of not knowing.

 

Upon arrival at Mount Sinai they practically ran through the maze of hallways, Tony with his phone out tracking Steve’s cell signal. Tony was moving at such a pace that he missed the door to the surgical waiting room and skidded to a halt, backtracking once he realized his mistake.

 

Steve sat on a chair in the middle of the room, head in his hands and completely unaware of their presence. If Tony had to pick one word to describe Steve right now, it would be ‘devastation’. He and Pepper walked into the waiting room, though Tony was unsure how to approach Steve in this state.

 

“What happened, Steve?” Pepper asked, sitting down beside Steve, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

 

Steve’s shoulders sagged and he leaned against Pepper. With a shaky exhale, he whispered, “He…overdosed. And now he’s bleeding internally. They’re trying to stabilize him, but it’s…not looking good.”

 

Of all the things Tony expected coming here, a suicide attempt wasn’t one of them. _Barnes seemed to be doing better! He must’ve not been saying anything. Shit, why didn’t any of us see this sooner?_

After that, the three of them sat in silence facing the door. A few minutes later, a nurse and an intern doctor arrived with grim faces.

 

 _No, he can’t be,_ Tony thought, heart plummeting into his stomach.

 

“He’s still alive,” the intern said, much to everyone’s evident relief. She continued, “However, his liver is damaged beyond repair. We’re _just_ keeping him alive. He would need a transplant in order to survive, but the likeliness of getting a donor within a few hours with his blood type is…well…”

 

Her voice trailed off, but between Steve’s defeated face and his own inability to not _not_ solve a problem, Tony had a glimmer of hope.

 

“What blood type is he?”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Bucky thought hell would be less beeping and hissing sounds and more fire and brimstone. _Though that beeping is_ very _annoying_.

 

Other than the incessant beeping assailing his ears, he was oddly comfortable. No pain: just drifting on a dark sea of warmth and calm. He was too exhausted to open his eyes and check out the surroundings though. Then there was the pressure on his left side—the epicenter of the warmth—but it wasn’t unpleasant.

 

 _Could I be...in Heaven?_ The beeping changed frequency; Bucky considered that but it slowed back down, so he decided to ignore it and go back to contemplating how St. Peter could possibly have made the mistake of letting him into Heaven.

 

_I killed all those people. I killed Tony's parents. I even killed myself._

 

Guilt and self-hatred bubbled an evil, roiling froth in his chest that travelled throughout his body until he couldn’t stand it anymore. _I don't deserve this. I deserve to be in hell. I should be_ burning _in hellfire for all I've done. Why God,_ why _?_

 

Then the warmth left him and distantly, Bucky could hear the beeping go wild and the sound of someone yelling, “Nurse!” But all that mattered was that the warmth left. Without the warmth, it was just darkness and chaotic noise. Oblivion sucked at his feet, dragging him _down, down, down-_

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Now he knew; he was in a hospital.

 

One job left in the world and he couldn’t even do it right. The demons in his head arrived in a plague of abject misery, voicing their opinions. _Such a fuck-up. Couldn’t even kill yourself and make it stick. And now there’s another one of your messes for Steve to cleanup after._

 

 _Steve_.

 

Bucky hadn’t opened his eyes yet. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to—it was all the same. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he _did_ know what he would find. Steve would be there, waiting for him to wake up. And he couldn’t bear it: not the shattered look on Steve’s face, nor the painstaking care his best friend would give him once he got out of here. He didn’t deserve it.

 

The beeping—the heart monitor—trod on steadily, taunting him with his failure. There was a hissing as well and something that bellowed his lungs in and out for him, not even giving him the chance to decide on that. _Fuck-up._

 

Tears started leaking from his eyes. Bucky had done _everything_ everyone asked of him. It hadn’t made him better. And here he was, fucking up what should have been his last. He’d planned everything—to make sure there was minimal mess to clean up, that none of his loved ones would be the one to find him. But he couldn’t manage to do it right—who knew it would be so difficult—and now he was, once again, a burden to everyone around him.

 

The team at SHIELD had managed to bring him back, override the Winter Soldier programming, but the memories of what he had done during his time as an assassin had come trickling back more with each passing day. So Bucky learned of what he did, all the innocent people he killed. All the people whose lives he’d forever altered just because he hadn’t managed to die like a normal person falling off that train. That was bad enough; then came the day the memory of Howard and Maria Stark’s car accident returned to him. The car accident that he orchestrated—the one that left his now good friend Tony orphaned.  

 

That memory was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

 

Bucky had been clinging on by his toenails to recovery; he took his meds and attended therapy, but he was still fighting a battle in the war his mind waged on him. Learning he had killed his friend’s parents—the friend that housed and fed him—sent him over the edge.

 

After treading water so long, it only took one wave to drown him.

 

He held onto enough of his sense to get out of the Tower, to make excuses, to get away from anyone who would stop him. It was surprisingly easy, stealing away to the gym where he and Steve worked out. Steve was expecting him back at the Tower that evening, so someone at the gym would find him before closing time. Bucky would be dead long before anyone would find him and then the world would finally be rid of him.

 

Bucky didn’t know where he went wrong, but here he was, on a machine keeping him alive. He sobbed in despair—once—and choked on the tube in his throat.

 

Panic flooded his system, because his body’s instinct was to rid his throat of the tube but it was firmly lodged. His world narrowed to the pain of his throat contracting around the intubation tube and _cough_ \- failed breathing attempt – _cough_ \- machine pumps in air - _cough_ repetition. Bucky moved his hands to rid himself of the menace and found they were restrained.

 

Bucky flashed back to being strapped to the metal table with nothing but a mouth-guard for the pain and _no, no, no, they can't make me go back. I won't kill for them again!_ With every bit of strength he had, Bucky fought like hell, screaming around the ventilator tube, his eyes now open for the first time.

 

Steve’s voice broke through his tailspin. “Hey, hey, keep calm, Buck! You _gotta_ stop fighting! Just let the ventilator do the work, you’re okay!”

 

“ _Nurse_!” Steve hollered out the door before diving back to press his hands down onto Bucky’s legs. To Bucky he said, with tears streaming down his face, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving. It’ll be okay. Just-”

 

A short, plump blonde dressed in white arrived then, syringes in hand and a look of business about her. Bucky screamed again when he saw the syringes, knowing that meant darkness once again.

 

And so it came, courtesy of multiple IV medications, and a part of him welcomed it. But it would only be temporary.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“-don’t let him die. There’s so much more for him to see in this world and if you let him do this, I-I’ll.” Steve’s voice faltered then and there were the sounds of tears hastily being scrubbed off a cheek before he continued his prayer. “I only just got him back. Please, God, I’ll do anything to keep him here.”

 

Bucky couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened his eyes and reached for Steve with his metal arm, realizing in that moment that his hands were blessedly free and his airway was clear. He wrapped his hand around Steve’s and squeezed.

 

“Bucky? Are you really awake this time?” Steve said, his voice cracking like dry timber. The super soldier shifted in his chair and leaned up closer to the head of the bed. Bucky managed a nod in response.

 

“Oh thank God.” Steve moved as if to embrace Bucky, but something held him back, so he settled for rubbing his thumb over the top of Bucky’s hand in concentric circles.

 

 

 _Jesus, the look in his eyes_ , Bucky thought, guilt and remorse clawing their way from the depths of his mind. His best friend looked wrecked: red-rimmed eyes, crestfallen shoulders, and sheer exhaustion in every feature.

 

 _This is my fault_. Bucky had known his death would affect Steve and the others, but he hadn’t known it would be like _this_. Steve was defeated and a noon shadow of his usual self—and this was when Bucky was _alive_.

 

_What if I’d actually been successful?_

Bucky turned his head away from Steve, unable to look at him any longer. _Your fault, your fault_ , called the demons. Bucky shrunk in on himself; he had made Steve look like this. _I don’t deserve his friendship. He’s much too good for the likes of me._

 

Strong fingers cupped Bucky’s chin and tilted his head back in Steve’s direction. Bucky clenched his eyes shut, but he could still feel Steve’s sorrowful gaze on him.

 

“Buck. Bucky. Are you hurting? Do you need water?”

 

_Stop, Steve. Please. Just leave me alone. I don’t deserve your sympathy._

 

But Steve didn’t let up; next thing Bucky knew, the head of the bed was coming up, putting him in an upright position.  That put a bit of a strain on Bucky’s abdomen—muscles pulled and ached and Bucky didn’t know what to make of that. Bucky opened his eyes to glance down at his torso. _Why is it hurting?_

 

Steve tracked his gaze and said, “You had surgery. You were bleeding internally and your liver was damaged. You had to have a liver transplant.”

 

Bucky lifted his right hand and rubbed it over his face. _Why did they save me?_

 

“Here, drink some water,” Steve said, jerking Bucky back to the present and pressing a straw to Bucky’s chapped lips.

 

Not realizing how thirsty he was until presented with the water, Bucky gulped down the whole cup. Eager for more, he looked to Steve, but Steve shook his head no. Then Bucky realized he shouldn’t be drinking anyway; if he wanted to die, he didn’t need water.

 

Steve, not aware of Bucky’s inner quandary, spoke to him softly:

 

“Maybe in a little bit. You’ve got to go slow with this. You’re going to have a long recovery from this surgery,” Steve explained, placing the empty cup on the bedside table before turning back to face Bucky. With a heavy sigh, Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and started fiddling with the edge of his jacket. Bucky avoided eye contact and fixated on the zipper of Steve’s hoodie.

 

Voice soft and pained, Steve asked, with his jaw set, “Buck, just...what were you thinking?”

 

_That I wanted to shut up the voices._

 

_That I should be punished for murdering all those people._

 

_That I wanted to stop being a strain on everyone around me._

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky rasped, tears running down his face and dripping onto his pillow and hospital gown. His throat hurt speaking, like someone had scraped and hollowed it out. Steve’s face fell more than Bucky thought possible as Steve leaned forward and smoothed Bucky’s tangled locks of hair away from his face. _And now I’m hurting him more. Christ, Barnes, stop crying._

“Don’t cry, Buck. _I just want to help you_. I thought you were doing okay, and clearly I wasn’t paying enough attention and-” Steve broke off there and swallowed loudly, trying to compose himself.

 

If Bucky thought he’d been sitting in a pit of despair before, this was a new low for him. Steve was blaming _himself_ for Bucky’s suicide attempt.

 

Bucky croaked, “Not your fault, Steve. All mine. I killed all those people, not you.”

 

Steve recoiled in shock. He floundered for words before sputtering, “That wasn’t _you_ , Bucky. You’d been _brainwashed_. No one here blames you for that!”

 

Bucky looked Steve straight in the eye and asked, “Not even Tony?”

 

Natasha burst through the door with two cups of coffee just in time to catch Bucky’s words. She and Steve both blanched; they weren’t aware that memory had come back.

 

“Tony does not blame you,” Natasha murmured, setting the coffee down before walking over and running her fingers through Bucky’s hair as she stood beside the bed, opposite from Steve.

 

_Fat chance of that. How could he not? I don’t deserve the way he’s treated me._

 

“In fact, he’s-” Steve started, but Natasha cut him off with a shake of her head and clearing of her throat.

 

 _Now what was that about?_ Bucky wondered, though most of his concentration was now going to the increasing pain in his abdomen. He must be due for pain medicine again, but he wanted to stay awake as long as possible. However, he wasn’t given a choice in the matter.

 

Natasha noticed his grimace, glanced up at the clock in the room, and turned on the call light. Moments later, a bright-faced young nurse arrived and emptied a syringe of clear medication into Bucky’s IV line with only minor fumbling—no doubt because of the proximity to Captain America.

 

Then Bucky drifted off to sleep. The last words he heard were “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

           

And so they were.

 

Every time Bucky woke up, there was _someone_ in the room with him. It was mostly Steve and Natasha there round the clock, but there were a few times he’d woken up to find Sam or Clint in the room, idly reading a book or playing solitaire. Even Bruce came to see him a few times.

 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he was on suicide watch.

 

So Bucky bided his time, for when he could be finally rid of the demons once and for all. The pain would stop, the voices would stop, and he would no longer be a burden to his friends. _Freedom_.

 

Opportunity arose seventy-three hours later, when a Code Blue was called during the middle of his morning medication administration, causing the nurse to run to help her counterparts. Clint was there in the room, but if he could grab the needle fast enough, _maybe?_ Bucky chickened out that time, but only because Clint wasn’t above tackling a post-op patient.

 

Plus, Bucky didn’t have a concrete plan of what to _do_ with the needle and syringe once he got hold of it.

 

 _Next time_.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Next time turned out to be when Steve fell asleep while watching him, which was a definite surprise.

 

Bucky took a moment to observe his spent friend. Bruised eyelids, jaw slack as Steve snored lightly into his arm where it was propped on the hospital reclining chair—the super-soldier must not have slept since that first night for him to have fallen asleep on shift.

 

Turned out, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to do it on Steve’s watch.

 

 _Coward, you’re a coward,_ chanted the demons. Burying his hands in his too-shaggy hair, Bucky managed a shaky breath, but the urge to cut up and tear open his skin surged up.

 

When his mind got like this, it was hard _not_ to.

 

And maybe, just maybe, he could cut and the thoughts would settle for that particular sacrifice for the moment. _Worth a try._

           

With painstaking care, Bucky wormed his way out of bed, keeping his panting from the pain to a minimal as not to wake Steve. Hunched over because of his surgical site, he scooted to the bathroom. Everything sharp or that could be used to hurt himself with was supposed to be removed from his room, but if anything had been missed, it would be in the bathroom.

 

Of-fucking-course, the bathroom door creaked like no one’s business when Bucky opened it, jolting Steve awake. Steve had a brief moment of panic when he saw the empty bed, but once his eyes lit on Bucky, he exhaled.

 

Steve rushed forward and slipped his arm under Bucky’s metal arm, then around Bucky’s back and said, “What’re you doing, Buck? You’re not supposed to be out of bed!”

 

Torn between the pain of his abdomen and the shredding of his mind, Bucky collapsed against Steve’s side. Tears streamed from his eyes; all he wanted was to be rid of these feelings and pain. He didn’t deserve to be leaning on Steve for help. But no matter how dark his mind got—no matter how bleak—some tiny part of him managed to weasel its way up from the depths and save him.

 

That was his big secret he hadn’t told.

 

He’d self-sabotaged his suicide attempt. Big, strong James Buchanan Barnes—the Winter Soldier—had forced fingers down his throat to vomit when the pain got too unbearable and he panicked.

 

Of course, he’d swallowed quite a few pills and most had already gotten into his bloodstream by the time he’d self-induced vomiting, so he nearly died anyway. But no, someone _had_ to find him and keep him alive. _Bastards_.

                      

He hated that survivalist in him worse than the demons. That fighter gene was what kept him alive to be tortured day in and day out with the horrid memories of the atrocities he’d committed.

 

Without Bucky realizing it, Steve had picked him up and placed him back on the bed.

 

Bucky whimpered: at the inability to cut, at the loss of contact as Steve pulled away.

 

Steve frowned at Bucky’s helpless sound and walked back to the head of the bed. Bucky didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, because, well, he wasn’t worthy of what he wanted. Making up his mind, Steve kicked off his shoes and nudged Bucky over on the bed before climbing in behind him.

           

Hating himself for it, Bucky relaxed into Steve’s chest and took in a rattling breath. This was the first time Steve had touched Bucky like this since his suicide attempt and relief flooded him despite the self-hatred.

 

“Bucky, why did you get out of bed?” Steve’s voice was tired and long-suffering. It sounded like he already knew the answer.

           

There was no point in lying then. “To find something to cut with.”

           

Steve curled in closer and wrapped his arms around Bucky, careful to avoid touching the surgical site. Pressing his lips to the nape of Bucky’s neck, Steve sighed, “Why, Buck? Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

 

Bucky shrunk in on himself, knowing Steve would hate his answer. To Bucky’s surprise, Steve’s hands encouraged him to turn over so they could face each other. Bucky rolled over, slow and easy, until they were lying opposite one another on the hospital bed.

 

“C’mere,” Steve said, opening his arms. Bucky scooted into them and buried his face against Steve’s chest, listening to the drumming of Steve’s heartbeat.

 

There, in his favorite place in the world, Bucky felt braver. Brave enough to tell Steve a piece of what was going on in his mind.

 

“So I have these thoughts. The thoughts tell me to kill myself in anyway possible,” Bucky started, gulping as he said those words out loud for the first time. A knot of tension eased in his chest; the demons quieted. Bucky continued, “The cutting kinda….appeases them. And…it’s my way of…umm…punishing myself.”

 

Steve blanched but his voice was steady when he asked, “Punishing yourself for what?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“You mean what you did as the Winter Soldier.”

 

No question there, but Bucky still answered, “Yes.”

 

Steve drew back slightly and proceeded to tip Bucky’s face up towards his. Blue eyes drilled into blue eyes when Steve said, “You are _not_ responsible for what happened when you were with HYDRA. They experimented on you and brainwashed you. You weren’t you. You just now happen to be housed in the same body that did those things but _it wasn’t you._ ”

 

Bucky tried to look away at that point, but hello, superhuman strength. Casting his eyes down, he stared at the Stark Industries logo on Steve’s t-shirt.

 

“Not looking at me doesn’t make it any less true, Bucky.”

 

Bucky suppressed an eye-roll, despite everything. Steve could really be such a punk.

 

“That’s my Bucky,” Steve said, a smile ghosting his face. Then Steve leaned forward and pressed his lips against Bucky’s forehead, lingering there for several moments.

 

And that’s how Natasha found them several hours later. She smiled, grabbed a magazine, and propped her boots up on the bed while she sat on the chair in the corner.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Talking about it that one time didn’t cure anything.

 

But it was a start: a short first step down a long road to recovery.

 

It certainly made it easier to talk about, and once his therapist agreed to let Steve attend a session so Bucky would feel comfortable enough to talk with her initially, he began making progress there. It would still be a long while before Bucky could forgive himself, but he was taking baby steps in that direction.

 

Until one careless slip of the tongue set Bucky back light-years.

 

One moment he was getting his bearings, beginning to swim—though he had no idea what direction _to_ swim in—the next he was drowning again.

 

Tony had given him his liver. _Tony_.

 

 _I orphaned Tony. I_ killed _his parents. I don’t fucking deserve to live because of his sacrifice. I should be dead. Why, why?_

The real problem (not for Bucky) lay in that they’d stopped watching him. Psychiatry was still on his case at the hospital, but he was no longer on suicide watch. His friends would still come to visit, and Steve didn’t leave his side during the day, but he was left alone most nights after he was given his sleeping medicine and anti-depressant.

 

So when the nurse accidentally let slip that Tony had donated part of his liver that night, Bucky only just managed to maintain his composure while she finished giving him his night meds, which he pretended to swallow. _No need for sleeping medicine where I’m going._

 

Now he had a several hour window where his friends were gone for the night and the nursing staff wouldn’t check in until vital signs needed to be taken. Taking a cue from the now surfacing demons, Bucky turned off the bed alarm on his bed and eased off the mattress. He walked towards the bathroom and flicked on the light. Toothbrush and toothpaste, a towel and some washcloths, and the curtain rod for the shower—none were particularly useful for his needs.

 

Glancing back at the room proper, Bucky’s eyes lit on the bedsheets. _Those will have to do._

 

He was in the process of tying his sheets into a noose when a voice said, “I think the pills were a much better idea.”

 

Bucky yelped and jumped, whirling around and reaching for a knife on his belt that hadn’t been there for ages. The lights in the room flicked on; Tony sat in a wheelchair near the door. He must have snuck in while Bucky was in the bathroom.

 

Tony gave him an appraising look and said, “Heard you were doing better. Or was that an act?”

 

Dumbfounded, Bucky opened and closed his mouth several times. What in hell were the chances Tony would pick _tonight_ to come visit? _Kinda hard to plot your demise when someone is watching you._

 

Bucky dropped the noose on the now stripped bed.

 

“Well, there’s a start,” Tony remarked, wheeling forward. He motioned Bucky to the corner chair. “C’mon, I don’t want to have to crane my neck to look at you.”

 

Bucky sat down on the chair, nervously rubbing his hands together.

 

“I’m not going to sic the nurses and docs on you. If you want to go, there isn’t going to be any stopping you. I just want to know why. Why then and why now?” Tony said, his voice level and calm.

 

Somehow, Bucky believed him. Tony had no reason to lie.

 

But how could he explain, how could he tell Tony? Tony and his parents were the damn reason, or at least one of them.

 

Tony interrupted his thoughts and said, “How about I start first.” He took a deep breath and began:

 

“After the SHIELD and HYDRA files were made public, the first thing JARVIS alerted me to was that HYDRA was behind my parents’ car accident. Or rather, someone called the Winter Soldier was, under HYDRA’s orders. I wanted to rip and rend the person who killed my parents, but when Steve brought you in, it was clear that the Winter Soldier wasn’t you. Not by a long shot. I wanted to hate you, but that never happened. All I could see was the reckless kid in those old videos my dad had me watch of Captain America when I was a boy.”

 

“But I killed them, Tony. I killed your parents and…others.”

 

“No, HYDRA did. Your body was the weapon of choice, but it wasn’t you. You’re a fighter. If you’d had any control at all, you would have been fighting.”

 

Bucky’s eyes welled up, and he looked at the ceiling. He mumbled, “I’m a coward, not a fighter.”

 

Tony’s face scrunched up in a frown. “How do you figure?”

 

“I didn’t-couldn’t fight it. I should’ve been able to. I let innocent people die.”

 

“Wow, didn’t know you had superpowers of the mind that enabled you to fight brainwashing. Where were you when Loki was around?” Tony said, his eyebrows shooting up in mock-awe.

 

Bucky fumbled, “That’s not what I-”

 

Tony cut in, “Well, that’s what it sounds like. All those people died, yeah. Your body did it, but it wasn’t you killing them. Sergeant James Barnes _saved_ people.”

 

Bucky thought Tony had said his piece, but Tony continued on, “And do you want to know what else? You think you owe me something for the liver, I’m guessing? You don’t, by the way, but the only thing I’d like is for you to use that liver. Fucking _live_ , Bucky. Have you seen the way Steve looks at you? You hung the fucking moon and I know you feel the same way about him. So go friggin’ live. Save more people. Adopt a dog. Adopt a hundred do-”

 

“Mr. Stark, _what_ are you doing out of your bed?” Angie, the night charge nurse, bellowed.

 

“Well, party’s over, Barnes,” Tony conceded as Angie grabbed his chair and wheeled him out of the room. As she was closing the door, Angie called over her shoulder, “Mr. Barnes, you better be in bed when I come by again.”

 

No one messed with Angie, so Bucky clambered back into bed. He had a lot to consider after that.

           

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Can you take me outside today?”

 

Steve started so bad he nearly dropped the tray of coffee in his hand as he walked into the room. But hey, those superhuman reflexes were good for something. Bucky smiled.

 

Recovering himself, Steve quickly said, “Sure. Did you want to go now?”

 

“If you don’t mind.”

 

Five minutes later, they were standing at the entryway of Mount Sinai Hospital, looking out into Central Park, with Steve taking the bulk of Bucky’s weight. They exchanged no words, just two shy, hesitant smiles that broadened into full grins. Then Bucky dropped his head to Steve’s shoulder—closing his eyes—and just breathed.

 

He could do this. He owed it to Tony. To all the others that fell. Bucky would die making the world a better place.

 

 _Freedom_.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a few things I wanted to add:
> 
> 1\. Recovery really isn't a simple choice to make. It's a decision that has to be made every day, multiple times a day, and sometimes every second of every day. And guess what? Even then, the demons still can come back. Some people win. Others don't. Some are fighting the battle for the rest of their lives. It's different for every person, but it isn't easy. Please remember that if you know someone who is struggling. 
> 
> 2\. I deliberately made it so Bucky didn't find out it was Steve who found him when he overdosed. That's something Bucky could be told later, when he's more stable.
> 
> 3\. For any of you struggle as Bucky does in this fic, know you're not alone. I'm in the trenches with you, but I'm always open to talk. You can find me on Tumblr at redasthenovembersea
> 
> 4\. If you or someone you know needs it, here is the (US) National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255


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